


Stepping on Sand

by palavapeite



Series: Children of Lesser Gods [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bombs, Clint's pick up lines are bad, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Military, Mission Fic, Pre-Slash, occasional bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavapeite/pseuds/palavapeite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission in the Middle East goes awry and Maria Hill is missing. Clint Barton, whose job it was to keep an eye on her, is in trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stepping on Sand

Wiping the sweat off his forehead and re-adjusting his sunglasses, he wondered whether this was better or worse than the jungle. Instead of unbearable humidity clouding up his concentration and equipment, there seemed to be an ever-present curtain of dust and sunlight in the air. 

It didn't get all that much better once he'd found a high spot, either.

“ _Barton_ ,” came the voice in his ear. “ _Report. What is your status_.”

It was never an actual _question_ with Fury, Clint smirked.

“In one piece,” he replied. “Haven't showered in a week but took the liberty to piss and get off the streets before contacting you, sir.”

“ _Funny, Barton_.” Nick Fury did not sound amused and Clint Barton sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Found a spot. Taking a look at the area. Care to tell me where the fuck you've dropped me off this time?”

“ _Be less of a pain in the ass and you might eventually get security clearance to know,_ ” Fury replied flatly and Clint grimaced, looking around. Eventually. Like never.

Of course SHIELD would drop him in a nondescript desert backyard in a place that barely qualified as a village and that could have been almost anywhere in the Middle East. The little writing he had spotted so far was in Arabic. There didn't seem to be much infrastructure to this village, a handful of shops, a bunch of cars. Following the sandy roads leading away from the houses, Clint suspected there might be a bigger city to the southwest. He narrowed his eyes. There was a hint of railroad tracks, mountain ranges in the distance.

“So how's this gonna go down, then?” he asked, grabbing for the water bottle strapped to the kit on his back. “Where do I find Hill?”

“ _You are not going to find Agent Hill, Barton_ ,” Fury replied, his voice a little distant, as if half his mind was occupied by something taking place right next to where he was. “ _Agent Hill will find you and brief you on the specifics. This is a recon mission and your task is to keep possible troublemakers off Agent Hill's back while she does the job. I hope you like mountains._ ”

That sounded a lot like what he'd just done in the jungle.

“Sir, I think it would be a lot easier...”

“ _Shut up, Barton. Hill, have you got him?_ ”

“ _Confirm location,_ ” a new voice suddenly spoke. Maria Hill sounded both pleased and a little bored. “ _Turn around and give the top right window on the building behind you a wave, will you, Agent Barton?_ ”

***

“Four damn days,” Clint muttered into his comm, eyes on the lone truck that made its way across the sandy plain below. “Come to daddy, honey...”

“Smooth your feathers, Barton. Eyes on target.” Hill's voice was calm, but the past four days had taught Clint that she was a no-bullshit-on-the-job kind of person. Clint couldn't resist annoying her a little, not after three and a half long, hot days and nights of cowering between a bunch of rocks waiting for one car every twelve hours to drive by. If it had been just him, he'd have let the first car go by to verify the location of the entrance and hijacked the next to sneak in and get the job done. Instead, Hill had insisted on wasting four perfectly valuable days on figuring out whether there was any regularity pattern of the supply transport (there wasn't) and locating all side entrances of the base before making a move to at least find out _what_ the hell Hydra was shipping to begin with.

“Target pinpointed,” he muttered, following the transport through the lens on his sniper rifle.

“Hold it,” Maria replied. “Target still within view from the camp.”

As if he didn't know.

“What possesses Hydra to have a hideout right round the corner of a fucking US army camp anyway? How can that be comfortable?”

“Not sure how building hideouts inside solid rock is comfortable, but Hydra seem to have their own definition of the term,” Maria replied.

Clint shook his head. “Nutters, all of them...”

“One hundred and fifty metres to go,” Maria muttered and Clint cast a look down the steep slope, where Maria Hill was a blurry spot between the rocks right next to one of Hydra's air vent exits, visible only from Clint's angle, ready to jump down as soon as Clint had brought the car to a standstill.

“Fifty metres,” Hill's voice was tense. Clint took a breath and reduced his world to what he saw through the lens.

“Twenty. Ten. Five...”

“I can count.”

“Shut it. Fire.”

When the truck below crossed into the grey zone of the valley between the mountain Clint was stationed on and the one opposite, in which the rocks shaded it from view from both the Hydra base's main entrance and the army camp, Clint fired four times and the vehicle came to a halt, both front tyres flat and the driver and passenger bleeding silently over the headboard.

“Clear,” he said and watched as Hill moved out from between the rocks, crossed the short distance and climbed onto the car, knife in hand.

“Let's see then...” she muttered as she tore a hole into the roof and disappeared under the plastic cover. “So this... Holy sh... fuck.”

The very sound of Maria Hill cursing was alerting to Clint.

“Speak to me, Hill.”

“Okay, this isn't the kind of supply truck we were thinking...” Maria breathed and Clint heard the clicking of her opening another communication channel. “Control, this is Agent Hill.”

Narrowing his eyes at the truck, Clint tried to guess what could possibly be going on, when a reflection of sunlight in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

“ _Control here, report your status._ ”

“Morse,” Hill replied, sounding vaguely relieved, “I need you to find me Coulson and get him on the line. Now.”

Clint cursed inwardly. Sure, don't tell me. Be cryptic. I'm just the one covering your ass up here...

“ _Understood._ ”

“I hate to rain on your desert parade here, but this better be quick,” Clint grimaced, scanning his surroundings. “We're under a little time pressure. There was a bunch of camo boys further down the ridge who might've heard the shots. If they come too far down here, they'll cut off our escape route, plus I'll be a sitting duck.”

“Better keep an eye out for them, then.”

“Also, Hydra might be wondering by now where their supply car got lost...”

“Noted,” Hill replied. “Stay put. We can do this.”

“ _Agent Hill_ ,” a new voice was audible over the comm.

“Phil,” Maria blurted out. “I've got a situation.”

“ _Report. Mission status?_ ”

“Intercepted the transport without trouble. Inspecting cargo.”

“ _Situation?_ ”

“I'm standing on a warhead and enough spare parts to make about fifty more.”

Listening in, Clint had to bite his tongue to keep himself from blurting out spontaneous profanity that neither Hill nor Agent Coulson would be too keen on. He wasn't sure whether he preferred this degree of frankness to the cryptic version.

“ _Maria_ ,” Coulson replied calmly, muttering instructions to someone on the other end of the line. “ _Give me details. What kind of warhead?_ ”

From the shape of the plastic cover over what Clint now knew to be a pile of explosives, Hill seemed to be crouching down and shifting her weight slowly.

“Looks like a Stark torpedo,” she said. “No legible inscriptions, but some indications that writing might've been removed...”

“ _Shape and size_ ,” Coulson began and Hill continued, moving slightly.

“Pretty much like the outdated Stark Wars 2.0 model. But some of the spare parts I can see down there don't fit it.”

“ _They might have adapted the design. Hydra's nifty like that. Any clues where they might have got them from?_ ”

“There might be somewhere at the back. There are boxes. Let me see...”

Clint saw Maria re-emerge from the car, gingerly jump off the roof and walk around to the back, cutting the plastic apart far enough for Clint to catch a glance at the pile of explosives inside. Returning to scanning the horizon, he could make out a small, dark dot that became gradually bigger.

“Looks like we'll get visitors real soon,” he pressed out, trying to catch a glance at the approaching vehicle through the scope of his rifle. “Can't tell you if this is Hydra, the military or something else, but in any case, it's going to get crowded.”

“Found a box with switches and buttons, possibly a booby trap,” Maria reported. “This isn't Stark tech. Scanning and transmitting. Bobbi?”

“ _Got it. Analyzing data,_ ” the woman on the other end replied. “ _Definitely not Stark. Database running_.”

“ _Check for wires, Maria. Agent Barton._ ” Coulson didn't sound stressed, but his voice was firm and it was clear that he was issuing an order. “ _I have your positions on satellite. I need you to keep one eye on that vehicle and one eye on the Hydra base. Once Agent Hill is done transmitting, you have to make sure she can make a quick and safe exit when I give the signal. Under no circumstances leave or compromise your position. Understood?_ ”

“Understood,” Clint replied, biting his tongue before he told Coulson that he thought this was a _shit_ idea.

“ _Maria?_ ”

“Scanning what's left of inscriptions.”

“Fuck,” Clint muttered to himself when Hill began to read to Coulson what sounded like an inventory list. The car was coming closer, definitely heading in their direction. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He looked around for signs of the military party he'd seen before. They had come closer, too, but didn't seem to have spotted him, or come far enough to see Maria or the car. The main entrance to the Hydra hideout was still closed, except...

“Guys,” he said quietly. “We have another problem.”

“ _Speak_.” 

“Hydra's sending out infantry. Probably looking for the transport. Counting thirteen... fourteen. Armed. Big guns. Not quite as big as mine, but...” Clint turned his head and looked the other way, where the approaching truck was now discernible as one of the Hydra vehicles Clint had been watching for the last three days. “Hydra truck approaching fast from the other direction. It's getting _rather tight_ now, Hill.”

“Almost done,” Hill replied, glancing into the direction of the approaching car. “Give me one minute.”

Clint licked his lips, his thoughts tumbling ahead.

“I could take out the car. Diversion.”

“ _Not yet_ ,” Coulson replied and the clicking of a keyboard could be heard. “ _Maria, I think this is all we'll get. Get out._ ”

“Copy.”

Keeping his rifle focused on the transport, Clint registered in the corner of his eye how Maria moved away from the vehicle, pocketing her gadgets and pulling her gun.

“ _Barton,_ ” Coulson's voice spoke in Clint's ear, “ _I need you take out that transport as soon as it's in the valley and out of sight for the military. No closer, no further. Got that?_ ”

“Got it,” Clint pressed out. “But damn it, Hill, you have to move faster. Those Hydra scouts are climbing your way.”

“ _Keep your eyes on the vehicle,_ ” Coulson replied for Hill.

Clint swallowed as he changed the ammunition of his rifle, one eye on Maria Hill, who made her way across the rocky mountainside towards the designated spot. Once she was there she'd have both cover and an advantage over anyone approaching, but if she didn't get there fast, she'd be fair game for anyone with halfway decent aim.

“You won't make it in time,” Clint muttered urgently. “Hill...”

“ _Hold your shot._ ” Coulson's voice was sharp. “ _This is an order._ ”

The approaching car burst into flames as Clint's bullet hit it.

“FUCK YOU, Barton!” Maria Hill snarled into the comm, but Clint didn't bother replying. He pulled his side arm and took aim. Two of the Hydra scouts went down and Clint ducked back into cover.

A curtain of dust and sand descended on his head. A second later the rocks beneath him were shaking with the impact of another bullet.

“ _Speak, Barton._ ” Coulson's voice was steady, but he sounded positively livid. Clint wondered whether Coulson was above using phrases like 'you stupid fuck'.

“Uhm, truck down,” he pressed out, when a rock not far to his right exploded. “Two Hydra down. The rest are...” - a small rivulet of sand came down on him as another hostile shot hit the mountain wall further up behind him - “apparently trying to chase me out.”

“ _Maria, report._ ”

There was no answer.

“ _Agent Hill! Report._ ”

Clint peeked over the rocks surrounding him.

“I can't see her anywhere,” he breathed. “She might've found cover, or got out.”

“ _Situation, Barton?_ ”

Clint took a second to register his surroundings.

“They're no longer shooting,” he replied, taking another peek. “They've found the first truck. Reckon they don't wanna risk it blowing up. Counting...” He lifted his head for another heartbeat. “Ten Hydra. I can see three bodies, the first one I got might've tumbled out of sight...”

“ _Can you get out?_ ”

“What about Hill?”

“ _Answer the fucking question, Barton. Can you get out?_ ”

“I think so,” Clint muttered, looking at the equipment he had left. The sniper rifle had taken a rock to the muzzle and was probably useless. He had his handgun and his pouch of special ammo he tended to sneak past SHIELD inspection, as well as his bow, although that wasn't going to be of much use. “Guess if I created another diversion I could get enough time to run for it.”

“ _Then do so. That's an order._ ”

***

It wasn't even a proper holding cell, Clint realised when he looked around the barred corner of the room he was sitting in.

Disappointment was perhaps the wrong word, but he would have expected better of the US military. Then again, they almost certainly had safer places. They just hadn't bothered.

Which was probably a good thing, but he had to admit, his pride had taken a blow.

They had stripped him down to his underpants and confiscated everything SHIELD had issued (or not issued) him, including his in-ear. Clint had barely managed to tell Control that he'd been dumb enough to escape Hydra only to run into the arms of twelve Americans in camo before he'd been told at gunpoint to drop his side arm and his comm.

He'd figured the military was better than Hydra. A little bit later he hadn't been so sure.

The CO who'd dealt with him had been entirely unimpressed when Clint had told him that he was SHIELD - especially not when he'd refused to tell Captain Texas as much as his name. Obvious proof that Clint wasn't lying about his SHIELD status (and the man had clearly been aware of what SHIELD meant) had annoyed him infinitely; it had, however, also kept him from doing anything more drastic than putting Clint into custody.

A fact that Clint had initially planned to take advantage of.

Then the doctor, who'd been sent to patch up the scratch where a Hydra bullet had brushed Clint's leg as he'd left his sniper spot, had decided to knock him out with an injection. The last words Clint had heard had been 'this is just going to make you sleep'.

He'd woken up on the bench in his makeshift cell, wearing his pair of boxers and an ill-fitting camo shirt, his pride feeling sincerely violated.

Bright daylight was coming in through the barred window, so he had either not slept for very long at all, or slept for a very long time indeed. Looking around him he spotted a glass of water not far off, a table, two chairs and a cupboard beyond the bars of his corner and a water dispenser in the far corner. Anything beyond the room was a mystery.

He emptied the glass, realising he'd been thirsty.

“Hey, can I have some more water here?” he yelled, listening intently for movement, and the door opened.

Two guards outside the door. Clint only needed a split second to look at the both of them. Young. Barely armed. Name tags Winterton and Harvey.

“Any chance I can get a bite to eat as well?” he added when one of the guards, Harvey, handed him his refilled glass back.

“Don't think so, buddy. Sorry.”

“Hey, Sergeant Sunshine better not let me starve in here!” Clint called after the guard, who didn't respond, but simply closed the door behind him.

Clint groaned and sat down on the bench, thinking. Two guards he could assume to be averagely experienced. Medium lock on his cell. Not too bad. The cupboard might hold useful things. He also had good aim and a mean right swing.

On the downside, no weapon, no shoes, no pants. No fucking clue where he even was because Fury had never felt like telling him.

Crouching down to see whether the underside of the bench yielded anything useful for picking the lock of the bars with, Clint found a loose screw that he decided would simply have to do. He had made do with less, he told himself, and began to inspect the lock.

Seven minutes later he was about to step out of the cubicle when agitated voices outside the door and the turn of the handle made him sit back onto his bench and look innocent.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he heard one of the guards say before the lock snapped shut again.

There was more muttering and words Clint couldn't make out. Eventually, the door swung open and the guards came in, followed by two agents in SHIELD uniform and a man in a suit.

“Agent Barton,” the man greeted Clint and from the way his voice was both completely void of emotion, and yet perfectly capable of conveying just how pissed off he was, Clint figured he was looking at Agent Coulson.

“Sir,” he replied, standing up. Coulson sized him up, raised an eyebrow at Clint's lack of attire and nodded at one of his agents.

“Get him out and dressed,” he said.

“Sir, I am under orders-” Harvey began and Coulson shut him up with a look.

“Trust me, Harvey, your orders fall flat and Harris is only too painfully aware of it. Open the cell.”

“Don't bother,” Clint replied as he pushed the door open and took the bundle of clothes one of Coulson's agents handed him. He threw the screw at Winterton. “I'd get the bench fixed.”

The look of discomfort on the soldier's face only got worse when another voice suddenly boomed.

“What is this?”

“Sir, we were-” Harvey began, but he was cut off by the broad-shouldered, red-faced CO that came stomping in and glared at Coulson.

“And what the hell do you think you're doing, Coulson?”

“Captain Harris. I am here to take SHIELD Agent Barton back with me, as you were informed I would no less than fourteen hours and thirty-four minutes ago.”

“The hell you are,” the Captain replied, crossing his arms and blocking the door with his figure. “You ain't giving me orders, Coulson, not as Unit, not as SHIELD. That man was caught by _my_ men, blowing up shit in _my_ area and I'm not giving you permission to take him anywhere.”

“Agent Barton acted under orders,” Coulson retorted icily. “And we both know that you have no authority whatsoever to hold SHIELD personnel, Harris. So fortunately, I don't have to care whether or not you give me permission – as Unit or as SHIELD.”

“SHIELD ain't putting a sniper around the corner from where my boys train and get away with not requesting approval,” Harris fumed. “And blow up cars and make a fucking mess. And then send Penguin Coulson to step all over my men and my orders...!”

“Agent Coulson, sir,” a voice behind Harris interrupted and the CO turned around to glower at a third SHIELD agent, who Clint thought he recognised as Agent Firenze, or possibly Florenze, and who was holding Clint's in-ear and gear. “I believe that is all.”

Coulson nodded and the agent handed the equipment to Clint, who had got dressed and began to strap himself back into his gear, checking if everything was still there. He noticed how Florenze had retained his ammo pouch and grimaced. Counting his arrows he nodded.

“All there.”

“Fucking bow and arrows,” the CO muttered, his face red with anger. He narrowed his eyes at Coulson. “Joined the freakshow, have you?”

Coulson pulled his sunglasses out of his breast pocket and heaved a sigh.

“Captain Harris, on behalf of SHIELD I thank you for your cooperation. I am sincerely glad I did not have to resort to reminding you that the five of us would have been forced to blast our way out should you have refused to comply,” he replied mildly, unblinking, while motioning his agents and Clint to leave. “Which, as you are probably aware of, we would have easily succeeded in.” He turned to leave. “It's been a pleasure, as always.”

“One of these days, Coulson,” Harris growled after him, but apparently thought better than try to stop them.

Following the others and side-eyeing Agent Coulson as he walked past Clint, Clint could hear Harris bark at the two guards back in the custody room. A faint smirk crossed Coulson's face, but was gone in a second.

 

A helicopter was waiting for them not far away from the barracks, starting its motors when they approached.

“Thank you, sir,” Clint muttered as he waited next to Coulson to follow Firenze through the door. “For getting me out.”

“Agent Barton.”

Coulson's hand on his arm made Clint turn his head and a breathless 'oof' escaped his throat before he could stop it. Struggling to breathe, he was shoved against the side of the helicopter, his weight lifted off his feet. Coulson's arm was pressing across his throat and keeping him in place, giving Clint the unpleasant feeling of his eyes bulging out of their sockets. Gasping for breath and grabbing for support he stared at Coulson, who had pushed his sunglasses up and narrowed his eyes at Clint.

“I'm going to say this once, Barton,” Coulson spoke, deadly calm weighing down every syllable. “Give me one tiny reason and I swear, I will personally kick the living shit out of your sorry paltry ass until I can make myself a briefcase out of your hide. One of SHIELD's best agents is missing because _you_ fucked up, Barton. I sure as hell didn't get you out of there because I _felt like it_. And I swear, put another toe out of line and you'll be walking on crutches for the rest of your life. Are we clear?”

“Gh...” Clint pressed out, still struggling for oxygen. His face felt like it was about to explode. “Aahsss.”

He hoped Coulson would correctly interpret it as 'yes, sir'.

“Disobey orders again and I'll put a bullet in your body.”

Clint fell to his knees, hands around his throat, when Coulson took a step back and let him go.

“Understood, sir.”

“Good.” Coulson put his sunglasses back on. “Now get in the helicopter.”

Clint didn't need to be told twice. Scrambling up the ladder into a seat and avoiding the eyes of the other agents, he pretended to be fumbling with his bow.

A distant voice calling Coulson's name attracted his attention.

Looking outside he saw a man in camo approaching the helicopter. Even at a distance Clint could see he was taller than Coulson, than Harris, even, stockier in build and broader round the chest. His blond hair wasn't cropped as neatly as that of everyone else in the camp and he sported a goatee. However, the thing Clint noticed first and foremost was the complete lack of any kind of insignia on his uniform.

Raising an eyebrow when Coulson didn't ignore the man as he'd have expected him to, but turned towards him and, to his surprise, _grinned_ , Clint listened.

“Whaddaya know,” the man hollered. “I heard Phil Coulson came back to give the Cap an aneurism and it's not even a rumour. Haven't lost your edge I see.”

“I do my best,” Coulson replied and Clint was almost shocked to detect quiet amusement in his voice. “How's your Pauline?”

The other man laughed.

“Sharpening the knives for when I come back for R&R, I imagine. Five months pregnant, too.”

“Congratulations,” Coulson replied, smiling, and the man nudged him in the shoulder.

“Wouldn't be if it weren't for your crazy shit stunts, either. What happened to you, man? You were there one day, gone the next...” He nodded at the badge on Phil's jacket. “SHIELD, huh? Thought that was a rumour. Lots of rumours around...”

“Pay better,” Coulson deadpanned, acknowledging the pilot's ready-to-leave knock from inside the cabin with a nod before adding, “And if someone fucks up I can shoot them in the leg.”

The other man broke out into a chuckle.

“So I see.” He looked back to the camp, where people began to call and wave at him. He smirked and clapped Coulson on the shoulder. “Listen, I gotta go, but was good seeing you, man. Real good. Your folks still at the Portland address?”

“Mail will reach me,” Coulson replied and the man gave him the thumbs up as he stepped away from the helicopter that started revving up the engines for real now.

“Drop you an invitation for the baby shower, then,” he grinned. Coulson chuckled and gave him a quick wave before jumping into the helicopter, doors closing behind him.

Clint leaned back and tried to look the other way as to not attract attention. Coulson being ex-military wasn't surprising enough to risk having another shitstorm break loose.

Especially because this time around he was going to be on his feet enough to hit back...

“Sir,” one of the agents spoke up, holding a data screen out to Coulson, “The quinjet is in position. They've sent a status report and ask whether you have any orders.”

Coulson scanned the screen, rubbing a spot on his forehead and looking tired for a moment. Eventually, he shook his head and handed the screen back.

“No. As long as we'll get all the readings before the end of the day... we have to wait for clearance from HQ before moving, anyway. But, Ferrante, can you tell Morse to start scanning as soon as the sensors are online? Might save us some time.”

“Aye, sir,” Ferrante – not Florenze after all, Clint decided – nodded and began talking quietly into her comm.

Clint wondered whether it would pay off to ask what they were talking about and looked from one agent to the next. The first gaze he met was, to his discomfort, Coulson's.

“Okay, Barton,” he said, pulling out a data pad and opening a file, looking like he had prepared in advance. Clint, not sure what to expect, raised his eyebrows in response. Coulson looked at him, no longer giving the impression of wanting to tear him limb from limb, but bearing an air of professional patience. “I'll need to debrief you.”

“Now?” Clint blurted out before he could stop himself, then flinched when Ferrante shot him a death glare while Coulson was busy setting up the recording device and opening files. “Okay?”

“Agent Hill went missing after your mission went south,” Coulson explained. “We have no idea what happened to her. We have not been able to locate her in-ear signal, nor have we found any on-site trace of her.”

“Or her body,” one of the other agents added, glaring at Clint, who cleared his throat.

“That might be a good sign,” he offered and Coulson handed him the data screen.

“These are satellite shots of the valley,” he explained. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened, and where it happened. We've got a fairly good idea, but we need your report in order to confirm anything and request permission to move.”

“Move?” Clint asked absent-mindedly, browsing through the pictures on the data pad.

“Well, what do you think?” Ferrante snapped, but fell silent when Coulson put a hand on her shoulder.

“We'll find out what happened to Agent Hill,” Coulson began, slowly. “And then we bring her back. No-one gets left behind.”

Clint held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.

“Sounds good.” He cleared his throat and held out the data pad so they all could see the satellite picture. Pointing at the spot from which he had taken out the truck, he began to tell them what had happened.

 

“...and I knew she wasn't going to make it, so I took the shot,” he concluded, eyeing Coulson, who had been listening with a passive face.

“You disobeyed an order,” the other agent, whom everyone seemed to be calling 'Ryke', pointed out, sarcasm plastered all over his face. “You just said to yourself 'screw this, I'm gonna ignore the direct order I was given less than five minutes ago and just do whatever the hell I want' because you're that good, right, Barton?”

“Those scouts were within two metres of discovering her,” Clint snapped and Ryke snorted, clapping his hands in mock terror.

“And of course you couldn't expect one of SHIELD's top agents to be able to handle two scouts herself? You figured it was your job to ignore your orders and _save the day_? Just how full of yourself are you, Barton?”

“I-!” Clint began, but Coulson interrupted.

“Save it for later, boys.” He nodded at the current image on the screen. “Where exactly did you see her last?”

Clint swallowed his reply and stared at the picture for a moment, blood pulsing in his ears because he hated to admit to himself that Ryke had a point. Except Ryke didn't know shit.

“Here,” he eventually said, pointing. “I fired at the truck, then ducked, then came back up and shot the scouts. Hill was climbing up this slope to her hideout. One of the scouts must've shot in her direction. There was a lot of dust.” He paused. “When I came back up she was gone, so she either...” He frowned. “Either climbed up really fast...”

“We checked the spot, there's no sign she was there,” Ferrante threw in. “And large parts of the mountainside around the place came down in torrents from the shots that were fired. If there were traces, they're gone now.”

Clint bit his lip, nodding thoughtfully.

“There's a chance she slid down the slope with the sand that was coming down,” he mused aloud and noticed how Coulson eyed him carefully. Scratching his neck he continued. “That air vent exit is close enough... did you check whether it's still intact?”

“It's blocked, actually,” Coulson replied. “A rock landed half on top of it. They haven't fixed it yet as far as I know, so we assume it wasn't damaged and is still working.”

“So she could've gone down the vent? Technically?” Clint asked, looking from Coulson to Ryke to Ferrante and the last agent, who hadn't yet deemed it necessary to provide his name or participate in the discussion at all.

“It's a likely possibility,” Ryke eventually said. “How far she got is, however, impossible to tell. Depending on the design and construction of the vents...”

Clint pressed his lips together and tried to chase the phrase 'shredded to shashlik' out of his mind, when Coulson suddenly sat up straight, touching a hand to his in-ear, listening.

“We'll be there in five,” he replied curtly, turning his head to talk to the pilot. “Hey Bud, we've got to hurry up. You've got five minutes.”

“Dude, you trying to insult me?” the pilot grinned and Clint was pressed back into his seat.

***

“What've you got?” Coulson spoke when he stepped onto the parked quinjet that served as temporary mission headquarters.

“Signal. Look at this.” Shifting aside to make space for Coulson, the young, blonde woman sitting at the communication terminal pressed a number of keys on her keyboard. “You're the first one I'm showing this to.”

Clint, who had followed Coulson, for lack of anything better to do – everybody else had gone off to do something they were apparently supposed to do as soon as they'd left the helicopter – recognised something that looked like a floor plan.

“Where did this come from?” Coulson asked, surprised, turning the 3D model on the screen.

“I got it on my private channel,” the woman replied, tapping her in-ear, a spark in her eye as she looked from Coulson back to the screen. “Exactly sixteen minutes and thirty-three seconds ago as I fired up the systems and set up the main mission channel.” She nodded at the model. “It came from inside. Through Maria's earpiece.”

Coulson gave her a strange look.

“Maria sent this?”

“I think so.”

Exhaling loudly, Coulson let himself fall into the next chair and rubbed his face, glancing at Clint for a moment before pondering the floor plan again. He looked like he hadn't slept in two days, which, Clint mused, he probably hadn't if he'd been on the case ever since their mission had gone wrong.

“How do we know it's from Maria's earpiece?”

“I analysed the channel and the signal,” the girl – she was really too damn young to be a woman, Clint thought – replied, loading a sequence of numbers onto a side screen. “It's her encryption signature. I can't locate exactly where in the complex it came from,” she added, “And I can't find the signal now. But it's hers. It looks like she turned it on, got access to a computer, transmitted this and then went offline again. Possibly to avoid detection.”

“Or it could be a trap,” Clint threw in, nodding at the 3D model. When the girl looked slightly cross with him, he added, “Anyone could work the earpiece to send a message, couldn't they?”

Coulson nodded thoughtfully and looked at her.

“That's kind of what I'm thinking. Bobbi?”

“Of course it could be,” she admitted, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes as if she was weighing the odds. “I thought it might be but then again...” She heaved a doubtful sigh, then shook her head. “Why would they have sent it to _me_?”

She looked at Coulson, who listened intently. Bobbi gestured around the quinjet.

“I mean, _this_ was the last channel Maria communicated with. Mission Control. We were all logged into that primary connection. My channel is a secondary agent-agent channel. If it's a trap, why didn't they send the signal to Control, where they knew it would be received and understood by the right people? Why would they have sent it to one of her dozens of secondary ones?”

Coulson didn't reply, merely stared ahead, pursing his lips in thought. When Bobbi wordlessly shoved an open bottle of water and an energy bar in front of his face he took both and contemplated her for a second before taking a sip.

“I think she sent us this, Agent Coulson,” she spoke quietly as he unwrapped the bar. Coulson, chewing, suddenly frowned and glanced up at her, irritated.

“' _Agent Coulson_ '?” he asked and Bobbi turned her head away in embarrassment. Coulson swallowed. “Not calling me Phil to my face, _Agent Morse_?”

“Uhm, how do you...?” she muttered, tucking her long, blonde hair behind her ear while pretending to check for signal updates.

“I might be in my thirties,” Coulson smirked dryly. “But I'm not _deaf_. And I went out for beers with Maria before you even joined SHIELD, Morse...”

Despite his obvious amusement at Bobbi Morse's mortification, Coulson decided to let her off the hook and went back to business without distressing her further. Emptying the water bottle, he got up and turned the floor plan around a couple of times, looking at it from all angles.

“You made your point, Bobbi. Contact central communication,” he told her after a minute, “And ask them to verify that nobody else received this transmission. Then call Sitwell, he should be relatively close, and tell him we need his people as backup. Tell all of our agents to make sure they're ready within the next... say, five hours...” He straightened up and flexed his shoulders. “I'm going to call Fury and tell him we want to infiltrate a Hydra base.”

“Agent Coulson!” Bobbi called after him as he turned to leave and he stopped, eyebrow raised. She looked both nervous and excited.

“Sir, I would like to suggest including me in the party.”

Coulson looked slightly bewildered and she hurried to continue.

“If I can get any computer access in the complex at all,” she explained, gesturing at the floor plan again. “I might be able to locate the terminal from which the message was sent. It could help locate Maria more quickly.”

“Provided she's hanging around the computer she broke into, waiting for you to pick her up,” Clint threw in and she glared at him for a second before focusing back on Coulson.

“Not to mention I could extract other vital information, sir. I've hacked my way into Hydra before...”

Coulson contemplated her for a moment, then nodded non-committally. 

“We'll see.” He turned to leave, pulling his phone out of his pocket. When he spotted Clint, who'd straightened up, his face expectant, he shook his head.

“No way, Barton. You stay where I can shoot you in the leg if you break out in hysterics again...”

***

“ _Sir, Ferrante is ready to go in,_ ” Ryke reported over the comm. “ _Awaiting signal_.”

“What about Craig?”

“ _Also ready_.”

“Nineteen?”

“ _Good to go, Agent Coulson. All systems running,_ ” Bobbi's voice spoke in Clint's ear.

“Ryke?”

“ _Satellite and scanners synchronised. You're up and running_.”

“All readings clear. Relocate Mission Control. Confirm you can hear me. Who's your daddy?” Coulson grimaced, rubbing his face and blinking while voices over the comm confirmed that he was, in fact, everyone's mommy, daddy and wet dream.

Sitwell, who was second in command, rolled his eyes and gave Coulson the thumbs up. Coulson's voice was steady and he took a deep breath.

“Here we go, folks. You know what to do. Move in.”

On one of the screens, dots began to move and coordinates began to change.

“Just how many hours of sleep did you have before we arrived?” Sitwell asked, throwing a sideways glance at Coulson, who pulled a face. Sitwell rolled his eyes and glanced at Clint, who was standing a little aside, keeping an eye on the screens even though he wasn't always entirely sure what he was looking at.

“What's his job?” Sitwell asked quietly and Clint pretended not to have heard it. If he was being honest, his entire purpose with Mission Control escaped him too, although he liked being hooked into the mission’s comm channel well enough, so he didn't complain.

Coulson's reply was equally quiet and he didn't take his eyes off the screens.

“Didn't want to leave him at the quinjet to start a brawl with Ryke. Also figured we might need a good shot aboard, should things get tight...”

“Let's hope they won't,” Sitwell concluded, winking at Clint. “Don't take it personal.”

Clint grinned flatly in reply and looked out of the small helicopter window. He could see the valley in the distance, where two separate groups of SHIELD agents were currently sneaking into the Hydra base through the ventilation system, while Clint, Sitwell and Coulson hovered in the vicinity of the military base as to not attract excessive attention. Sitwell had volunteered to talk to Captain Harris about it. 

“ _Moving south into the mountain,_ ” Craig's voice was audible. “ _Dropping Nineteen off somewhere in the back storage rooms so she can find a computer. Everything's quiet so far._ ”

“Keep going,” Coulson confirmed. “We're not getting any irregularities.”

“All quiet on Ferrante's front,” Sitwell nodded, hand on his earpiece. “I'm guessing that once we're all in they're bound to notice us soon, though. We better find Maria quickly.”

“Maria's not stupid,” Coulson replied. “If she sent us that signal, she might meet us halfway. Let's hope so, anyway.”

Silence fell again, instruments beeping and lights blinking and moving across screens. Clint, who had found he was unable to sit down, was starting to get restless. He eyed Coulson and Sitwell, who somehow seemed to possess the ability to survey all the readings they received and not run crazy. How could they possibly sit here and look at everything while not actually seeing anything for real?

“Losing your nerve, Barton?” Coulson's voice tore Clint from his thoughts and he licked his lips, taking a breath.

“No,” he replied. “Sir.”

“They know their job,” Coulson said, not really addressing Clint specifically, but not talking to Sitwell, either. “We let them do their thing, keep our eyes open and help them get out.”

Clint didn't reply, just quietly hoped Coulson wasn't bullshitting them all.

“ _Nineteen here. I'm connected._ ”

“Copy, Nineteen. Channel is open,” Sitwell answered, smiling and hitting a number of keys. Another floor plan appeared on the screen, layers and layers of details popping up as Bobbi chewed her way into the system.

A red dot began to blink in a far corner of one of the middle floors.

“ _Red dot's is where the first floor plan was sent from,_ ” Bobbi explained. Sounds of shuffling were audible on her end. It was quiet for a while and a frown appeared on Coulson's forehead.

“Nineteen,” he said, using his this-is-an-order voice. “Nineteen, report.”

Another moment of silence passed, then the sound of metal on metal as well as the rustling of clothes could be heard.

“ _We're okay,_ ” Bobbi replied breathlessly. “ _Dodged a guard. Craig's on his way down, he's taking the others. I'm going to try and get some more data out of this baby. Ryke, keep the channels open._ ”

“Copy, Nineteen,” Sitwell confirmed. “Be careful. Ryke, redirect everything you get here.”

Ryke's response was the signal beep of incoming data that Sitwell opened on a spare screen, flipping through pieces of information and images.

“ _This is surface data that's circulating through the base,_ ” Bobbi muttered. “ _I've added you to the cycle, is all. I'm going to try and dig into the actual files now..._ ”

“Security footage, maintenance rosters, routines...” Sitwell mumbled. “Some of this could be helpful... Hey, Ryke, can you run through this and see if there's any trace of Maria?”

“ _In process_ ,” Ryke's voice boomed through the helicopter's cabin speakers.

“ _Ferrante here._ ” The comm blinked again. “ _We're at the designated spot. No trace of Maria. Scanning for her earpiece, but this place looks too crowded right now for her to hang around._ ”

“Are you safe?” Coulson asked and Ferrante sounded amused.

“ _Still inside the air vents. This is faster than the stairs..._ ”

Sitwell snorted and shook his head, grinning.

“Go on, then. Craig, go back to searching your previously assigned area. We have to assume Maria moved on after dropping the signal.”

“ _Copy, Control. Okay, spread out, guys and girls._ ”

Coulson ran a hand through his hair.

“ _Nineteen, there is a patrol group heading your way,_ ” Ryke's voice said and Bobbi uttered a small curse.

“ _How close?_ ” she asked and her voice was tense, the clicking of keys audible in the background. “ _Ten fucking seconds..._ ”

“Move,” Coulson commanded. “Information is not the main objective of this mission.”

“ _Oh, for fu- ...fine,_ ” Bobbi breathed and her comm went quiet again.

“Data is still transferring,” Sitwell commented and Coulson glared at the screen.

“Bobbi, what are you doing?”

“ _I left the data stick plugged in,_ ” Bobbi breathed into the comm. She sounded as if she'd crawled back up into the air vent, or had hidden in a confined space. “ _You better be saving this like a motherfucker, Sitwell..._ ”

Sitwell curled his lip, then found and opened the security footage of the area Bobbi was in.

“Have you thought of the possibility that they'll detect the data stick?” Coulson asked calmly, but Clint saw how his eyes frantically checked the positions of the two teams across the complex. Both of them were by far not close enough to help Bobbi with the six men strong patrol.

“ _Yeah. That's why I brought a gun,_ ” Bobbi replied quietly and Clint held his breath, hardly daring to look at the video screen and the floor plans. Although the air vent was a relatively advantageous spot and he himself could've taken the group out without problems, he had no idea how good or quick Bobbi Morse's aim was. He threw a quick glance at Coulson, whose lips were a tighter line than usual.

The security camera image wasn't the best, but it was obvious when the patrol stopped before the computer that Bobbi's little break in hadn't gone unnoticed. One of the men bent down slightly and Sitwell, who wasn't even looking at the screen, commented,

“Disconnected.”

“They'll raise alarm,” Clint stated, but Coulson didn't seem to listen.

“Get away, Morse. Right now. This is an order.”

“ _An alert for suspected intruders has been issued,_ ” Ryke's voice crackled through the comm again. “ _They're taking data out of the loop. We'll be in the dark in 3... 2... 1..._ ”

The security footage went dead.

“Shit,” Coulson muttered, looking at Sitwell. “How are the chances Craig or Ferrante are going to back her up?”

“Nil,” Sitwell swallowed. “I'm sorry, Phil, but there's no way in hell they'll be there in time if that patrol finds out where Nineteen disappeared to...”

“ _Something's going on_ ,” Bobbi promptly spoke. “ _They're drawing guns. I think..._ ” The soft brushing of kevlar on kevlar was audible, as well as the muffled clicking of a gun. “ _I could take out three of them from here..._ ”

“That'll leave three of them who'll know where you are,” Clint blurted out into the comm and for a change Coulson didn't look like he wanted to disagree or shut him up. “This is a shit idea.”

“Nineteen, stand down. Don't shoot,” Sitwell began to talk into the comm, but the sound of gunshots, not just one, but four, five, six, seven crackled out of their earpieces, followed by heavy breathing and then complete silence.

Coulson's face was a mask.

“Agent Morse,” he pressed out. “Agent Morse. Bobbi, report your status. Fucking now.”

The comm sparked back to life and Bobbi's quick breath made Coulson, Clint and Sitwell utter a sigh of relief.

“ _I'm fine_ ,” she said, still panting. “ _I didn't shoot first. I swear! I held the shot!_ ”

Coulson clapped a hand over his eyes.

“Tell me what happened.”

It sounded like Bobbi was moving out of the air vent again, the soft tap of her feet landing on the floor was audible.

“What in...” Sitwell frowned at another dot that appeared on the floor plan right next to Nineteen.

“ _Hey, Phil. Missed me?_ ” Maria Hill's voice rang in their earpieces and even Clint felt a wave of relief spread through him at the sound – and he didn't even _like_ Hill all that much. Sitwell burst out a surprised laugh and Coulson shook his head in disbelief, a broad grin across his face as he replied.

“Never pull that stunt again, Agent Hill.” He paused. “Welcome back. Sitwell?”

“Craig, Ferrante,” Sitwell grinned. “We found Hill. Retreat as quietly as you moved in. Bobbi, Maria, that goes for you as well.”

“ _Just a moment_ ,” Maria interrupted them. “ _Do you have computer access?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bobbi replied immediately and Coulson shook his head.

“This isn't the point here, Maria,” he answered. “Get out.”

“ _Phil, listen to me, something is cooking in this place,_ ” Maria argued. “ _The bomb and the spare parts I found. This isn't just an outpost like we thought. They have some operation running that they refer to as 'Nothung'. There's a lab further down and they're shipping crates in and out big scale._ ”

Of course, Clint thought, Maria Hill wouldn't waste the unique opportunity of snooping around inside a Hydra complex while running for her life.

“Maria-” Coulson began, but she cut him off.

“ _This is our chance to find out what it is._ ” Her voice was urgent. “ _Come on, Phil, this is why I went on this mission in the first place._ ”

Clint pulled a face. Coulson looked at the moving dots that were his two teams crawling through the air vents towards the exit. He looked at Sitwell.

“No dawdling, Hill.” He didn't look too happy with himself, but seemed to have decided she had a good point.

“ _Promise. Bobbi?_ ”

“ _Five seconds. And... we're back online. Ryke?_ ”

“ _Got you,_ ” Ryke's voice confirmed and the screen in front of Coulson and Sitwell flickered back up with security footage. Bobbi was bent over a keyboard while Maria secured the corridor.

“Let's hope this pays off,” Sitwell muttered, when the comm came to life again.

“ _Ferrante here. We're cut off; we can't get out the way we came. The vent seems to be blocked._ ”

“Ryke, give me visuals,” Coulson demanded and satellite shots appeared.

“ _Looks like some more rocks came down and blocked the thing for good,_ ” Ryke commented and Coulson sighed.

“Don't worry, Ferrante,” he replied. “Just turn back and take the turn after the next to the left. Then move up.”

“ _Gotcha_.”

“ _Try Nothung,_ ” Maria's muffled voice was audible as she spoke to Bobbi, while Ferrante was obviously passing on directions to her team.

The sound of sudden alarm bells screeching through the comm deafened out all their voices.

“ _Shit, I'm sorry,_ ” was the next thing that could be heard over the ringing, spoken by Maria, Ferrante and Craig in unison.

“Everyone, keep moving. Be careful and get out using the quickest way available,” Coulson took charge, motioning the pilot to start the engine and alert the other evacuation helicopters. “Nineteen, can you turn off the alarm?”

“ _I don't know,_ ” Bobbi replied, sounding like she was trying to keep calm. “ _I don't think so. This isn't an alarm..._ ”

“ _What do you mean?_ ” Maria asked and Clint saw how she bent closer over Bobbi's shoulder to look at the screen. “ _They're evacuating?_ ”

“ _Intruder alert,_ ” Bobbi read off the screen. “ _They've found us – all three groups. I'm not sure whether my system breech is what triggered the evacuation, or the search for Nothung, or something else, but..._ ” She fell silent.

“Morse, talk to me,” Coulson demanded, voice firm and calm. Clint remembered hearing it himself, shortly before he had fired at the truck.

“ _They've noticed that we're in their system,_ ” Bobbi spoke. “ _They know we're here. They've initiated a complete lockdown. They're blowing the place up._ ”

Sitwell paled visibly. Coulson swallowed.

“Everyone get out immediately.”

“ _Control, here Craig,_ ” came a cough over the comm. “ _They've blocked our air vent exit. We need an alternative route._ ”

“Fuck the air vent,” Coulson replied, “Cover's blown, just blast your way out if you have to. The place is going up. Get out and run as fast as you can.”

The helicopter had left its position and was approaching the valley, where Sitwell's men were already waiting to pick up the infiltration units and take out whatever Hydra came in the way.

“How much time have we got?” Sitwell asked.

“ _Timer's at T minus twenty minutes,_ ” Bobbi replied, then paused. “ _I've found Nothung_.”

“Forget about Nothung, you get out of there right now,” Coulson snarled, eyes fixed on the security image. Bobbi was still typing.

“ _Five minutes,_ ” she gasped. “ _Three. Give me three minutes and we'll have Nothung._ ”

“Morse!”

“ _Ryke, give me our quickest exit route,_ ” Maria Hill answered instead and turned to look up the corridor as he described to her where to go. Bobbi was still typing.

“ _Their system's collapsing,_ ” she babbled into the comm. “ _Complete meltdown, no firewalls, all I have to do is catch the data before it's gone. Ryke, are you getting this?_ ”

“ _This meaning fucktons of encrypted material?_ ” Ryke confirmed. “ _Hell, yes. This'll take months to get through, too._ ”

“Agent Morse, I order you to get away from the computer and leave the building,” Coulson pressed out and this time Maria backed him up with a gentle, but urgent,

“ _Bobbi. Leave it._ ”

Tearing Bobbi out of her seat, Maria dragged her down the corridor, gun drawn, running out of the current security image.

“ _Sixteen minutes, thirteen seconds left,_ ” Ryke reported, then paused. Typing was audible and Ryke let out a soft curse.

“They're not going to make it,” Sitwell breathed, looking at the scan reports. “The shutdown process locked two main doors of solid steel. They have to find a way around them. The place is a labyrinth.”

Looking out of the helicopter, Clint was overcome with a sense of cold dread. Hydra were streaming out of the main entrance by now, welcomed by a SHIELD firing squad. His fingers itched towards his bow.

“Can you give me the location of the trigger?” Coulson suddenly asked and Clint's head jerked around.

When Sitwell looked at him with a growing sense of horror, Coulson added. “Well, where is this thing going to start blowing up?”

Sitwell looked like he would have taken a shot to the knee rather than tell.

“ _The explosives are underground, designed to take out the basement structure. There are two main trigger points from what I can make of the data I've got,_ ” Ryke spoke over the comm. Two dots appeared on the 3D model. “ _They are linked. First one's somewhere above the entrance, second one pretty deep down in the mountain. First one blows up, turns all escape routes to rubble and then triggers the second one. BOOM._ ”

Coulson looked at the model from all sides, then smacked his lips and loosened his tie.

“I'm going in,” he declared, calling to the pilot. “Bud! Take us in.” He turned to Sitwell. “Get me a suit and call the military. Tell them I need Hoover on the line pronto.”

“Are you completely insane?” Sitwell shook Coulson by the shoulders.

“No, Jasper, as a matter of fact and in case you don't remember I am with SHIELD because I used to be kind of good at this bomb thing,” Coulson snapped, stripping out of his shirt and kicking off his shoes. “And as we've just heard that there is a bomb about to go off and agents' lives are in danger... you do the math.”

“How're you going to get in to begin with?” Sitwell asked, handing Coulson a kevlar suit.

“I don't know. Ziplining.” Looking at Clint while he closed up his suit and stepped into his boots, Coulson added. “Guess that's where we need someone who can blast me a hole through a ventilation opening. Barton?”

Clint straightened up and stepped up closer to the screens.

Sitwell had opened a construction model of the Hydra base's stone façade before going back to talk to Craig, who was asking for an alternative exit route again.

Clint studied the computer image. The wall was thick, Hydra did like to dig – a lot – but there were a number of weak points scattered across the wall where exhaustion fume exits and air vent openings were camouflaged into the rocky surface. The floor level on which the trigger was situated was at about the same height as one of them, slightly to the left.

The helicopter gave a sharp jerk as it came to a halt in midair and Clint looked outside, scanning the rock for the spot he needed. He pressed the button to open the door and leaned against a nearby handle to steady himself.

“Got it,” he replied, grabbing his bow and inspecting the tips of his arrows until he found the right one. Turning to Coulson, who had strapped his equipment and two guns to his belt, he nodded. “Ready, sir?”

“How much time?” Coulson demanded and Ryke's voice replied,

“ _Eleven minutes, forty-three seconds._ ”

“Hoover's on the line for you,” Sitwell threw in and Coulson motioned Clint to take aim before picking up.

“Hoover, this is SHIELD. Evacuate the base. Every last soul, right now. Move southwest off the mountain. The entire area is going up. You have ten minutes.”

Clint didn't pay attention to Hoover's protests shortly before Coulson hung up on him. Steadying himself, he drew, took aim and released.

The air vent exit went up in smoke and dust came raining down onto the plain below.

Clint didn't even take time to breathe before sending a grappling arrow after it.

“I need someone to have my back in there,” Coulson said matter-of-factly and Clint nodded, shouldering his quiver and bow.

“Sir.”

“Ten minutes left, Phil,” Sitwell muttered before turning back to his screens, talking Maria and Bobbi around an entirely blocked area.

“Tell me which turn to take once we're in,” Coulson told Sitwell, holding out a hook to Clint, who found himself sliding towards the mountain half a heartbeat later, closely followed by Coulson.

“Get moving, Barton,” Coulson greeted him as he stepped into the building behind Clint. “Sitwell?”

“ _Turn left and then right. There should be a door leading onto a metal bridge._ ”

“Computer lock,” Clint stated, drawing an arrow and putting a hole into the small keyboard.

The lock buzzed as the circuits protested, but the door stayed shut.

“Step aside,” Coulson ordered and turned his head away as he took his taser to the arrow before kicking the door down, lock smoking. “Sitwell?”

“ _Straight on, end of the bridge. Turn left and left again. You're there._ ”

“I see it,” Coulson replied as he and Clint ran across the bridge hanging from the high ceiling above what appeared to be a transport hangar. Clint could see people moving below, but thought better of shooting and attracting attention.

Kicking down another door and revealing a short, narrow corridor at the end of which a computer terminal and a chaos of pipes and wires took up the entire back wall, Coulson motioned Clint to stay back.

“Keep the exit route clear,” he ordered, holstering his gun and pulling a series of instruments from his belt, Coulson turned to hurry down the room. “How much time?”

“ _Five minutes, fifty seconds._ ”

Clint watched from the door how Coulson began to pry open the cover of the computer and looked at what was inside. He plugged a rectangular box into one of the hubs and began to pull out individual wires.

“ _Is there another way out?_ ” Maria Hill's voice was audible over the comm. “ _We're pretty much stuck here. Too many Hydra still left..._ ”

Clint frowned when he thought he heard the same shot both through his earpiece and from below.

“ _Barton,_ ” Sitwell's voice drew his attention, “ _You should be directly above them. Any way you can help?_ ”

Clint took a second to get an image of what was going down in the hall below. Hill and Morse were hiding behind a stack of crates that hadn't been moved yet. Not far away a sniper seemed to be crouching on an abandoned vehicle, effectively trapping them.

“Can't get him if he's lying this low,” he muttered, taking aim. “Can you get him to move out? Just a little?”

“ _Phil, I need an update,_ ” Sitwell's voice interrupted and Clint told himself to ignore the tension in Coulson's voice.

“ _Working on it._ ”

“ _I'm moving out,_ ” Bobbi's voice came. “ _Maria'll cover me from her end._ ”

“ _This better be good, Barton,_ ” Maria muttered and Clint smirked when the Hydra sniper keeled over, Clint's arrow entering his head through one ear and going out the other.

“You were saying?”

“ _Coulson, I need an update!_ ” Sitwell repeated and remained short of a reply yet again.

“Barton, get in here,” Coulson's voice called out from inside the trigger chamber and Clint moved off the bridge. Coulson was kneeling arms deep in wires, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“ _Barton, what the hell is he doing?_ ” Sitwell yelled into Clint's ear and Clint eyed Coulson, whose earpiece lay discarded on the floor next to him.

“Sir, Sitwell wants an update.”

“Well, he can't have one now,” Coulson snapped and Sitwell, who had obviously heard it, began to verbally abuse Coulson under his breath. Clint swallowed, one eye on the clock that was ticking on the terminal screen. Four minutes.

“Sir-”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, grow a pair, Barton!”

Coulson grabbed the small rectangular device that was running numbers across its small screen and cursed before wetting his lips absent-mindedly.

“I can't dismantle this thing,” Coulson eventually said, not looking at Clint, but fumbling for something amidst the cables inside the computer.

“What?” Clint blurted out, staring at the small, black box Coulson extracted.

“ _Three minutes, thirty seconds,_ ” Sitwell spoke. “ _Coulson, the fuck are you doing?_ ”

“One of these days,” Coulson muttered as he broke the lid off the box and looked inside. “I'm going to go to Malibu and taser Tony Stark in the face...” He looked at Clint. “Give me one of your arrows. Small, flat tip.”

He levered another piece of metal off and revealed a series of cogs. Clint knew next to nothing about bombs and triggers, but he was certain that cogs were not standard components in this day and age.

“What do you mean you can't dismantle this?” Clint all but yelled at Coulson, who wordlessly handed Clint a series of loose wire ends. Tongue between his lips, Coulson inserted a wire into the system of cogs. They slowed down.

“Hold this,” Coulson instructed and Clint could feel his heart in his throat as he crouched down to keep the wire in place. Coulson, in the meantime, took back the wires in Clint's other hand and started pushing buttons on the device he had plugged in at the beginning, then unplugged it from the computer and wired it to the box of cogs. He held his breath.

“Tell me what the clock says,” he whispered and Clint looked past Coulson at the clock on the computer. The time was still blinking, stuck on 1:56.

“Timer stopped, it’s blinking,” he replied, realising his voice was practically a squeak. Coulson exhaled loudly and buried his face in his hands. He took a deep breath, then fumbled for his headset.

“Sitwell,” he called faintly.

“ _Please tell me you stopped it,_ ” Sitwell croaked.

“It's paused,” Coulson replied, looking at Clint as he spoke. “It can't be stopped, it's got an in-built trigger circuit. I could override Stark's mechanisms, but Hydra have messed it all up with their steampunk tech. If this end's dismantled, the other one blows up, and vice versa. I put the impulse on a temporary loop. Timer's at 1:56.”

“ _Ferrante's got back,_ ” Sitwell replied. “ _Craig's out, one of the choppers is picking them up. Maria and Nineteen are shooting their way out the main entrance. How much longer can you hold?_ ”

Coulson crouched down and looked into the chaos of wires inside the computer.

“The wires aren't that strong. The loop I put them on's going to smoke them through. Three minutes. Five max.” He contemplated Clint for a moment. “We'll need to make a quick exit. Have the helicopter where you let us off.”

Clint swallowed when Coulson's plan became clear to him, but nodded. At this point, jumping off a mountain didn't sound all that much worse than what he was doing right now. Licking his lips when he felt the wire between his fingers grow warmer, he was about to say something when steps running across the bridge caught his attention.

“You give us fifty seconds. Then you leave,” Coulson ordered Sitwell. “This is an order. I'm still in charge.”

A shot echoed through the narrow room and the Hydra agent fell backwards through the railing of the bridge. Coulson stared at him, his gun drawn and pointed.

He looked down at Clint, whose gun was smoking from its muzzle.

Glancing up from his crouched position, one hand still holding the wire in place, Clint met Coulson's eyes. Coulson exhaled, then nodded.

“ _Maria and Nineteen have left the base. Running towards our helicopters,_ ” Sitwell interrupted. “ _Get the hell out, Coulson, Barton._ ”

Coulson grabbed his gadgets and took the wire from Clint's fingers.

“Go. Clear the way,” he muttered. “I'll catch you.”

“Nobody gets left behind,” Clint answered stubbornly and Coulson smirked, a strange grin tugging at his lips.

“What I was saying, Barton, is that you're a shit sprinter. Now go.”

 

Coulson had indeed caught up with Clint by the time he was running straight towards the opening he'd blasted through the front wall.

Seconds were ticking in his mind.

The jagged outline of the hole stood in stark contrast to the brightness of the sand and sunlight outside and Clint panicked for a moment when he realised there was no stopping at the speed he was running. He was jumping into absolute nothingness.

Ten metres.

Five.

Two.

The air was hot and Clint had to force himself to open his eyes when he felt the ground under his feet disappear. In the corner of his eye he spotted Coulson, who was looking upwards, fumbling for the grappling hook gun at his belt.

Following Coulson's gaze Clint saw the frighteningly large body of the SHIELD helicopter above them, blocking out the bright sunlight.

His hands found his bow and quiver out of their own accord and his head turned to look for Coulson even before his first arrow had hit the underside of the helicopter, or the piece of wire that connected the arrow with the quiver harness around Clint's chest had fastened.

He had already drawn again.

The second grappling arrow hit Coulson's belt buckle, digging into the kevlar material around it as Coulson's whole weight landed on the wire that connected him to Clint's quiver.

Clint feared for a moment that his harness might give way and he prayed that wherever the helicopter was taking them as it moved away from the valley, that it would set them down soon enough. He saw Coulson take aim with his gun and some of the weight was lifted off his harness.

Blinking against the sand and dust that was swirling around his face, he spotted Bobbi and Maria far below, running and jumping onto their helicopter at the last second, and he only really dared to breathe when he saw the mountain range on the other side of the valley pass beneath them.

They could make it yet. 

Hardly hearing the voices shouting in his ear, Clint closed his eyes when Ryke's countdown reached zero.

***

“You have to hold it steady,” Clint explained, his voice smooth as butter at Bobbi's ear as he brushed his fingers across hers. “Don't grip it, Just let it rest in the crook of your fingers. Now draw, use your shoulder... find your anchor point-”

“ _You_ never do!” Bobbi protested and lowered the bow she was holding. “I've seen you shoot, you just do whatever!”

Clint sighed and leaned against the back wall of the cubicle they stood in.

“I'm also the best marksman on this marble,” he replied smugly. “I _can_ just do whatever... and still never miss my target.” He winked.

Bobbi glared at him, then cocked an eyebrow when he stepped up to her.

“If that was your best pick-up line you'd _have_ to be the best to ever land a shot anywhere, Barton.”

“I see my skills find appreciation,” Clint grinned. “Call me Clint, will you? Can I call you Bobbi?”

Bobbi burst out into laughter.

“What if I say no?”

“Maybe I'll call you Barbara.”

“You haven't even got the security clearance to know my full name,” Bobbi teased, a mock suspicious glint in her eye. Clint responded by sidling up next to her, pretending to be taking the bow from her hand.

“I guess not. Does it make me a bad boy, Agent Morse?”

“From where I'm standing it makes you look like an idiot,” Maria Hill replied before Bobbi could say anything and Clint shot her a dirty look as she stepped into the cubicle. Bobbi merely giggled and pressed the bow into Clint's arms, grinning.

“Can't really argue about that.” She pursed her lips for a moment before stepping back and winking at him. “In any case, your punishment will have to wait, since not all of us have the low security privilege of doing 'whatever'. I'll see you around, Agent Barton.”

“You can have dinner with me later,” he called after her as she left the shooting range with Maria Hill. “I'm all free!”

Sighing a little frustratedly when she didn't reply anymore, he put the bow down and collected the arrows back into the quiver. He looked at the clock and yawned, figuring he could just as well find somewhere to have a nap. He had kind of lied to the nurses when he'd told them he felt super fit and ready to leave the medical ward. Some shut-eye would be good.

Walking down the aisle at the end of the shooting range, he lazily looked into the other cubicles where various agents were practising their aim. He was a little surprised to find Coulson in one of them, and even more so when he noticed that the man was quite the shot. Up to this point he had half told himself that even if Coulson wanted to shoot him in the knee, there was a chance he'd miss. That hope, at least, proved vain indeed.

“Agent Barton.” Coulson turned around and took off the earphones he was wearing before leaving his cubicle.

“Agent Coulson.” Clint nodded in greeting as he turned to leave, but Coulson's voice and the sound of his steps following him made him stop.

“Where do you think you're going, Barton?”

Clint raised his hands defensively and shook his head.

“Listen, I've sat through all the debriefs, handed in all my reports. I've been flying from mission to mission for a month and it got kind of hot on the last one. I'm going to take the rest of the day off.”

“No, you're not.” Coulson pulled a ledger out from under his arm and offered it to Clint, who eyed it warily.

“Excuse me?”

“As a matter of fact, Barton,” Coulson began, nodding at the table printed on top of the ledger, “You will go straight back to medical to schedule a series of shots you will probably need. Afterwards you will join Agent Morse in unarmed combat training, which I assume you won't mind too much and which, incidentally, you will do every afternoon from now on for the next two weeks. Starting tomorrow morning you will also receive additional training in infiltration and interrogation, computing and engineering, biology and chemistry, piloting, information processing as well as a rerun of the basic SHIELD house rules. You will also take up running and sprinting as a hobby.”

Clint blinked. Coulson didn't seem to feel a need to clarify.

“And why would I do all of this? I'm a sniper. I hit targets from afar. That's what I'm good at.”

Coulson looked unmoved, still holding out the ledger.

“I'm afraid you'll have to be good at more than just that if your security level is going to be raised to 5.”

Clint snorted. Yeah. If he lived to see that day. Fury had only grudgingly granted him the 3 he was currently on and he had made it clear that Clint was running constant danger of being downgraded back to 2.

He leaned towards Coulson, who held Clint's tiredly disbelieving look without so much as a twitch.

“...and why would Fury want to do that?”

“Because I don't work on anything or with anyone below that level.” There was challenge in Coulson's voice. “So unless you want to continue your series of sniper missions, in which you hit targets from afar, you will take this ledger, get your shit together and get used to following my orders.”

It was the first time Clint found himself short of a reply. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times.

“Fury agreed to that?” he finally asked, disbelieving.

“Don't ask me why, but I did, Barton,” Nick Fury suddenly said, stepping out of one of the cubicles behind Clint, pocketing his revolver. “The way you've been handler-hopping is nothing short of appalling.” He sized Clint up and frowned. “Makes you look like the company slut, Barton, and I cannot condone this kind of harlotry under my command.”

Coulson suppressed a snort at Clint's bewilderment and exchanged a quick look with Fury, who pointed at the ledger in Coulson's hand, still speaking to Clint.

“Now, I believe you have a medical appointment to keep.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint replied, a little taken aback. “Guess I have.”

Fury nodded at Coulson, then turned and left. Clint took the ledger from Coulson's hand, meeting his eyes.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Coulson replied, looking back over his shoulder before walking away. “Don't make me regret this.”

Clint nodded, pondered the ledger in his hands before walking after Coulson.

“Sir, can I ask you a question?”

“I don't see why not.”

“Do you recruit all your agents like this?”

This time Coulson actually laughed out.

“It's not usually necessary,” he replied. “Your case is a bit special.”

Walking next to Coulson towards the exit, Clint threw the other man a sideways glance.

“How'd they recruit you?” he asked and Coulson cocked an eyebrow. When he didn't look like he was going to taser him for insolence, Clint continued. “How'd they get you out of the military? Because I'm not stupid, I know you weren't just military, you were fucking Delta or something...”

They reached an elevator and Coulson pushed the button to summon it, turning to Clint, regarding him for a moment.

“They did not recruit me out of the military,” he finally replied when the doors opened and they stepped in. “I had left three and a half hours before SHIELD approached me.”

Coulson pressed two buttons and Clint eyed him sharply. He was about to say something when Coulson spoke again.

“And before you overstep a boundary, Barton,” He smiled faintly at Clint. “I don't have to tell you why. So don't ask.”

“Understood,” Clint replied, a little miffed.

“This floor's yours,” Coulson smirked when the elevator stopped. “Medical ward. Have fun.”

 

“You sure this was a smart move, Agent Coulson?” Fury asked as he stepped up next to Phil Coulson to watch how Bobbi Morse whacked Clint Barton over the head with her leg before tackling him to the ground. Coulson smiled.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

They watched Maria Hill pick up Clint's pieces and patch up his split lip before telling him what he'd done wrong.

“Don't think I've not seen the reports.” Fury didn't look particularly happy. “He doesn't obey orders. He's an outright liability.”

“He's the best marksman SHIELD's ever seen.”

Fury snorted and threw Coulson a sideways glance.

“He's a shit agent, Phil.”

“He's a good man,” Phil replied, lifting his chin in defiance.

For a moment they were both quiet. The corner of Fury's mouth twitched.

“Only _you_ , Phil,” he muttered, faint amusement in his voice. “Only you'd recruit a man for that reason.”

“Let's not get personal here, Nick.”

Fury laughed and Coulson smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about bombs beyond having seen The Hurt Locker twice. Nothing.
> 
> This series is set in the MCU. I have taken the liberty of adapting various comic characters (e.g. Bobbi Morse) to fit into it as I saw fit. Characters are partly based on, or similar to, their comic counterparts, but I did not slavishly stick to biographies and/or character traits. They are not meant to be representative of their comic-verse selves. 
> 
> This story was written in early August 2012. My thanks and love go to [nerakrose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nerakrose) and[mrs_jack_turner](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_jack_turner/pseuds/mrs_jack_turner) for an unbelievable amount of support, feedback, constructive criticism and encouragement. It’s their fault this is finally being posted. No really, it is.


End file.
